* * * * *
[Fade in. A waiting room. More specifically, a doctor’s waiting room. A few stiff-backed, cushioned chairs flank a small, wooden coffee table which holds an assortment of outdated magazines: Sports Illustrated from last October; a Newsweek with Kenneth Starr on the cover, dated sometime back in late ’98. The walls are a soft sky blue and are dotted with framed photos and degrees. The room is empty of patients, save one: Jesse Falcone. He sits in one of the chairs, a Federal Express envelope lying on his lap as he flips through a packet of papers. He is dressed casually in a pair of blue jeans, cowboy boots and a collared, flannel shirt, which is un-tucked. Without acknowledging the camera’s presence, he begins to speak out loud about the information he is sifting through, occasionally flipping the pages.]
Jesse: Damn, there sure are some big boys in this thing. Let’s see… six-foot-eight, three hunerd-and-twenty pouns… six-nine, three-eighteen… seven-three an’ three fifty? Whew. Seven-foot, three-forty-five… SEVEN-SIX, THREE-NINETY-SIX?! How the hell does that bastard find any clothes? Oh, I see. Furs and horned helmets, huh? I guess those pretty much come in any size. Damn, I never thought I’d see the day when I felt small. Well, Jesse, you wanted to play in the big leagues, and if there’s one thing these guys are, it’s big. Maybe I should concentrate on the fella’s who are a little more my size. At least for openers. It’d be kinda hard to make a name for myself if I spend every night lying under some three-hunerd poun’ dude. Well, at least not in this profession. Sounds more like a job for this “Sexy” Sammy character. Well, this Antonio Gambino guy is about my size. Wonder what this thing says about him. [Pause as he reads] What’s this… he’s a… a MAFIA DON! Look at this stuff he’s laying claim to. [Looking up at the camera for the first time] Can he do that? I mean, I’m from Canada and I know things are different up there, but can ya’ll come right out and admit to the public that you’re a crook? Man, that takes brass balls. Hm. What else? Says here he’s 26, and he went to jail in… 1972? That can’t be right. He woulda just been born. Took over the familia in… 1985? AT 13? This can’t be right. His age must be a typo or something. Well, I’m not gonna mess with this one just yet. Don’t wanna wake up next to a horse’s head. Hell I LIKE my horse. Who else we got here? Killian, huh? Somebody smaller than me. Didn’t think I’d see that. Doesn’t say about him, though. Dan Riggs? This bio makes him sound like kind of a badass. Come to think of it, all these guys sound like they’re a badass. Killers, mobsters, gang members. Who writes these bios, Stan Lee? Guess my first match will be against Wolverine, or maybe the Punisher. I just don’t get it. Whatever happened to good old fashioned wrestling? You know. Entertain the people, put on a good show, and try be the best. Hell, I don’t know whether to train in a gymnasium or a boot camp. No, looks like this guy Cut Throat already has that covered.
[Suddenly, the receptionist appears in the doorway just over Jesse’s right shoulder. She’s dressed in a typical white nurse’s uniform, right down to the white stockings and shoes. She’s an unremarkable looking woman with a very sanitized smile.]
Nurse: Mr. Falcone? The doctor is ready to see you now. Step this way please.
Jesse: [to the camera] Well, I gotta go get my physical so I can make this whole deal official. Wouldn’t want climb through those ropes in anything less than tip-top condition. As for the rest of you guys out there… well, all I can say is this. Ya’ll sound like a bunch of real tough competitors, and I’m hoping we can go out there each week and put on a good show for all those folks who are comin’ out to see us. I’m not sure if you all think you’re as bad as you’re putting on, but for record, it don’t matter. Once we get inside that ring, all the sneering and snarling in the world ain’t gonna make a bit of difference, because we’re all after the same thing, and I don’t think any of us will be backing away just because of a couple of threats. Hell, boys, it’s still a sport.
Nurse: Mr. Falcone?
Jesse: Well, duty calls. See you all in the MSG in a couple of weeks. I’ll be ready.
[He stuffs all of the papers back into the Fed Ex envelope and drops it into the chair. He then follows the nurse out through the doorway. The camera pans down slightly and zooms in on a publicity photo of Jesse that is sticking out of the envelope. Fade out.]
* * * * *